The Reigate Puzzle
by LittlePippin76
Summary: My attempt at an update of ACD's The Reigate Puzzle. There's bit of angst, a bit of hurt/comfort, hopefully a fair amount of humour and a nice little puzzle to solve. Please read and review. Now complete. Pip.
1. Chapter 1

**I first read **_**The Reigate Puzzle**_**, nearly twenty years ago. I then lost it. I knew that it must be somewhere in the anthology, but could I find it? No. I could not. The problem was, two things I really liked it for were throw away lines which I simply couldn't find again on re-reading. Skimming through I could find the main puzzle, but hadn't connected those details with the two throw away lines so didn't bother re-reading.**

**Two weeks ago, I opened the anthology randomly, and started reading the first short story I came to. I started hopping around the room with excitement when I found those two little lines! **

**So here it is.**

**This one fits into my Canon about 18 months after **_**Garridebs**_**. It will be updated every day, or alternate day.**

**Grateful thanks to GoldVermilion87 for proof-reading and advising.**

* * *

Chapter One

John and Mary Watson sitting together on the sofa, watching the television. John was only half concentrating on the programme. He kept casting furtive glances in the direction of his wife. Mary was trying hard not to be irritated by this.

"I was thinking of making a tea. Did you want one?" he asked.

"No thanks. I'm fine."

"I can do coffee if you'd rather?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Hot chocolate?"

"I'm _fine._"

"OK." He was silent for a few minutes. "Do you want anything to eat? You haven't eaten much today."

"I'm fine. I've eaten plenty. Do you think you could stop worrying about me for maybe ten minutes?"

"I'm not worried! I'm just… OK, I'm just a touch worried. I reserve the right to be worried about my wife."

"I'm fine, John. I'm certainly as fine as I'd expect to be. I'd be even better if I didn't have to use all my energy fending off your worry."

"OK. All right, I'm sorry. I'll try to rein it in a bit. You know it's just because I love you, don't you?"

"I know." She kissed him. "If you'd like to get me some ice-cream, I wouldn't hate that."

He smiled at her. "OK. I can get ice-cream. I can be useful for the getting of ice-cream."

As soon as he'd got up, the intercom buzzed.

"Are you expecting anyone?" he asked Mary.

She shook her head and he went to find out who was there.

"John? It's Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes."

"_Mycroft?_ What are you doing here?"

"John, it's raining rather hard. Would you mind letting me in?"

"Yeah, sure. Sorry."

He buzzed him in through the security door downstairs and opened the door to his flat before heading back to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Mycroft appeared in the front room within minutes, dripping wet.

"Mycroft, have you met my wife before? Mary, this is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Mycroft said, taking her hand and bowing slightly.

"Oh, you're soaking!" Mary said. "I'll go and get you a towel!"

"I can do it!" John told her.

"Yes, so can I!" She left the room.

"Tea, Mycroft?"

"No, I'll come to the point, John. I need you to go to Rome to collect my Brother."

"What? No, I'm not going to Rome!"

"All your expenses will be paid and you will be generously reimbursed for your time. It should be a simple enough job for the right person."

"What do you mean? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"It's Sherlock, John. What do you think?"

"Well, you'll have to find someone else! Send the SAS or something, but I can't just drop everything and fly to Rome!"

"Yes you can," Mary said, coming back in and handing Mycroft a towel.

"The SAS are unqualified to deal with this situation, John. I came to you because you are the only person who will do."

"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere, Mycroft."

"No, John, I'm being sincere. Sherlock has been taken ill. Several doctors have already seen him, and they are baffled."

"Wait, what do you mean? What's wrong with him? How long has he been ill?"

"That we know of, for three days, and if I knew what was wrong with him I wouldn't be here asking for your help. John, Sherlock has just finished a case. It was a complex case spanning several European countries and one that he's been working on continuously for six weeks."

"Oh, it's nervous exhaustion then."

"Yes, John, _I know._ Or at least I think I know. The difficulty is that Sherlock has been remarkably uncooperative with the doctors that I've sent to help him. Consequently, I've had differing reports of his status, none of which are trustworthy. The first doctor could hardly get into the room. The second doctor insists that there is an underlying physical cause for his state. He has taken vast quantities of blood for testing, and I have to admit I'm concerned that he might be right. The third doctor has insisted it has a psychiatric cause, and suggested moving him by force to a locked institution."

John laughed. Mycroft frowned at him.

"Sorry, Mycroft. You're right, it's not funny at all. But I can't just drop everything to go to Rome because Sherlock's behaving like a stubborn sod."

"Yes you can," Mary repeated.

"No, I can't."

"I think the question is," Mycroft cut in, "whether you trust your diagnosis of 'stubborn sod' without actually having seen the patient? I agree that it would be an accurate diagnosis of his general character, but I've never known him refuse to come home so that he can vegetate in his own flat. John, by the time the second doctor arrived, he was unable to fight him off. He let him take his blood without a fuss."

"OK, that is unusual." John glanced at Mary. He shook his head. "Mycroft, I can't!"

"Yes you _can._" Mary insisted. "John, please, you're being ridiculous! Besides which, we both know that as soon as Mycroft's gone, you'll start fretting about the possibility of Sherlock being somewhere suffering. "John looked like he'd like to argue. "Please, I'm _fine_, you should go, work out what Sherlock needs, and then come home again."

"I have a private jet waiting for you," Mycroft said. "You will not need to wait in airports or queue at taxi ranks. The pilot and the plane will wait to bring you home again, ideally with Sherlock, though they have been instructed to return you as soon as you ask to come. The trip can be as short as you think is necessary. Please, John. I merely wish to know whether he is seriously ill, or whether he's just... being Sherlock. You're the only person in the world qualified to answer that question."

John glanced at Mary again. She sighed.

"John, don't even think of suggesting I come too. I'm not going to. Just go, get the job done, come back. I promise I won't spontaneously combust or anything while you're away."

"Fine. All right. Give me a second to pack my bag and I'll be right with you."

oOo

Less than six hours later John walked up the stairs to the small Hotel Virgilio on the outskirts of Rome. He was pleased that he hadn't needed to fight the post-club crowds that were staggering drunkenly around the streets.

The hotel staff were extremely accommodating and John got the impression that they were quite eager to have the responsibility of the sick man lifted from them. They gave John a master key, and he was glad they had when there was no answer to his knock. He opened the door to a dark room.

"Sherlock?" He said quietly.

"Who's there?" was the slurred reply.

"Sherlock, it's John. I've come to see how you are." John closed the door behind him and carefully crossed the room to the shape that looked like a bed.

Sherlock didn't reply for a moment. "John? Are you real?"

"Yes. Yes I'm real, Sherlock. I've been sent to assess your sanity. Well, your comparative sanity anyhow. I'm not sure you've ever been entirely sane." He sat down on the bed. "Can I turn the light on?"

There was a grunt from the bed and John found a lamp and turned it on.

Sherlock did not look well. He was extremely pale and thin and his eyes looked red and sunken though he kept them closed against the light. He had a mild rash across his forehead and the skin around his nose looked inflamed. John put his bag down and took Sherlock's wrist, finding his pulse.

"OK, Sherlock, are you going to talk to me a bit?"

"No."

"Sherlock, If I can't help you, your brother will let Doctor Pratico cart you off to the sanatorium."

"Tell him I'm fine. It's just flu."

"If it _is_ just flu, I'll gladly tell him that. I won't lie professionally, Sherlock. If you had a problem with that, you probably shouldn't have picked me up and taken me home with you when you did."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock, it's about three in the morning, I'm didn't get to sleep on the plane, and I'd much rather be in my fast asleep in my bed with my wife right now. But I'm not. I'm here. I chose to come here and take a look at you instead, so do you think you could cooperate with me a bit please? Seriously, I wouldn't make a house-call like this for just anyone."

Sherlock sighed and nodded. John rummaged through his bag for his thermometer and put it gently into Sherlock's ear for a moment. It beeped and he glanced at the reading, pleased that there was no fever.

"Can you tell me if you were injured on your case?"

"No."

"No you weren't injured?"

"No. I wasn't. I'm fine."

"Did you ingest any kind of poison?"

"No."

"Have you taken any medication of any time recently? And I'm including non-prescription drugs of any kind in that."

"No."

"When did you last eat?"

Sherlock frowned slightly. "Not sure. Don't remember."

"Did you pig out after you finished your case?"

"No."

"Have you had any nausea?"

"Yes."

"Dizzy spells?"

"Yes."

"How have you been sleeping?"

"Not stopped."

"OK. I'm going to take your blood pressure now."

Sherlock didn't help him, but he didn't fight him either.

"There's a nasty bruise here. Is this where the other doctor took the blood?"

"Mm. Not as good as you."

"No, not many people are." He took Sherlock's blood pressure and examined his fingertips and fingernails. Finally he took his stethoscope out, pulled the covers down slightly and listened to Sherlock's heart and lungs. When he'd finished he sighed and rubbed his face.

"Sherlock, I think, from this rudimentary examination, that you're exhausted, malnourished and probably a bit depressed. And, you have a cold, probably because in your exhausted, malnourished and depressed state, you haven't got the reserves you need to fight off a cold. I'm going to suggest that we stay here tonight, I'll wake you up for a bit of breakfast in the morning, and then I take you home to be fed up and looked after by Mrs Hudson. What do you think?"

"Fine. Can I go back to sleep now?"

"You can when you've had a drink. Do they have room service here?"

"Mini-bar. Rum and coke."

"If I thought for a second you'd drink a rum and coke or that you'd successfully digest it, I'd happily get you one. However, I think we'll start with water tonight, and progress to tea in the morning."

John found a bottle of water in the mini-bar and poured it into a glass. He had to take most of Sherlock's weight to get him upright enough to drink.

"Water's good," Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah, we've suspected for a while that it's important for sustaining life and health."

"Don't be clever."

"No. Right now I'm not sure I want to be as clever as you are. Right, I'm settling you down to sleep for a bit now. I'll be on the armchair. Shout or croak or something if you need anything, OK?"

"You can sleep in the bed."

"Yes, I would, but to be honest, Sherlock, it smells quite bad. I'll be on the armchair. I won't be sleeping deeply.."

"OK." He settled himself into the pillows. "Thank you, John."

oOo

John didn't let Sherlock sleep for much longer in the end. He woke him to give him more water after just two hours, and at eight, he pulled back the curtains. Sherlock rolled over slowly to face away from the light.

"I know, Sherlock, but you have to get up and face the day." John went over and sat on the bed, taking Sherlock's pulse and checking his fingers again. "I think you might manage some tea this morning. I'll call for it in a bit."

He looked at a stack of letters on the bedside table. "What are all of these?" He picked them up and started looking through them. "What on earth was the case, Sherlock? You've got literally hundreds of congratulation notes here! This one's from the queen! She wants to make you a knight! That's exciting!"

"Twelve."

"What?"

"There are twelve notes and letters. Not hundreds."

"Well I didn't mean _literally_ hundreds."

"Why say it then?"

"Good to know that you feel strong enough to correct me anyhow."

Sherlock grunted.

"Sherlock, do you think you could open your eyes at all? I just want to check that you do still have eyeballs."

Sherlock winced and frowned but he did manage to open his eyes. As John had expected they were bloodshot and dull.

"See. Literally still there," Sherlock said. He lay back again, exhausted.

"OK, I'm going to order breakfast and run you a bath. Then we'll pack up and get on Mycroft's plane and go home."

"Can we stay here? I don't want to go anywhere."

"No. I have to go home, and you have to come with me."

"I'll stay. I'll look after myself."

"Unfortunately I just don't trust you, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't answer. He just shut his eyes again.

Over the next two hours John begged, pleaded, cajoled and almost bullied Sherlock into activity. He was feeling quite pleased that he'd managed to get him to have a cup of tea, half a croissant and a bath, until Sherlock fainted while walking from the bed to the armchair. John had managed to catch him and lower him gently to the floor, and it didn't take him long to come round, but nonetheless, John felt guilty.

He waited for a moment for Sherlock to focus properly.

"I've had a thought: Why don't you stay with Mary and me for a while when we get to London? You can stay in our spare room and we can keep an eye on you until you get back to normal?"

"Why can't I just stay here?" Sherlock whined from the floor.

"Because you'll get stiff."

Sherlock looked confused and started to cry. "You're not making any sense!" he wailed.

"No. Sorry," John said, deeply concerned. "I didn't mean Rome; I meant the floor. Sherlock, you need to come home. You're not capable of taking care of yourself at the moment, so you need to be with someone who can help. I can't stay here, I'm sorry, I would if I could, but it's just not possible right now. Besides which, I need you to be in a country where I can write you a prescription. Come on now, calm down. It's a short hop in the plane, then we'll get you settled in our spare room."

"No." Sherlock wiped his face. "Baker Street. I'll come there."

John nodded. "OK, that's good enough. Right, do you think you can get up to the chair? Steady now."

He took most of Sherlock's weight to get him to the chair. He fretted for a while about whether he'd be able to physically hold him up all the way from the hotel room to the plane but he decided that failure wasn't an option. He started to think like a soldier and wrote himself a basic mission: Get Sherlock home.


	2. Chapter 2

**I should mention all the next chapters are subject to revision as errors and flaws are pointed out to me! Thank you for the reviews!**

Chapter Two.

Sherlock slept for the whole time they were on the plane, and he struggled to wake up on landing. John guided him a short way across the runway to the waiting car, and Sherlock got in and instantly closed his eyes again.

"Nearly there now," John said, getting in beside him.

Sherlock replied with a grunt.

At Baker Street he proved able to walk across the pavement and up the stairs to the flat, though he was clearly using the banister for support and he was breathing heavily. John followed him, holding a hand out, just in case, but it wasn't needed. Sherlock got into the front room and threw himself face-down on the sofa.

"I'm cold," he said into the cushions, shivering.

"I'll sort you out a tea and a duvet."

"What's wrong with him?" Mycroft asked, causing John to jump. He was watching Sherlock with a look of distaste.

"Nothing we can't sort out," John replied. "Did you want tea too?" He headed into the familiar kitchen.

"No. What's wrong with Sherlock?" Mycroft persisted, following him.

"Nothing that requires any input from his next of kin."

"What?"

"I'm not discussing Sherlock's medical details with you."

"But I hired you!"

"I'm still not going to, and you don't have to pay for my time. If Sherlock wants me to he can ask me to update you, otherwise, I won't."

Mycroft frowned and glared but John wasn't going to be swayed so he wandered back to Sherlock.

"Very well done on the counterfeiting case, Sherlock!" Sherlock didn't move. "Her Majesty was most impressed!" Mycroft waited for some response. "You know, you do need to accept the knighthood this time. The refusals are getting embarrassing."

Sherlock rolled onto his side. "John, tell him I've got a cold, then tell him to piss off."

"He's got a cold, Mycroft. He'll be fine, and if we need any more input from you we'll ask for it. Thank you for flying us home."

Mycroft gave John a pointed look but he did leave the flat, nodding a bow to Mrs Hudson as she walked in.

"Oh, Sherlock! What have you been doing to yourself?" she fussed. Sherlock seemed to relax slightly as she sat on the sofa with him and stroked his head.

"He's not been taking care of himself, Mrs H. I'm making him tea now, but I'm desperate to get back to Mary. Are you free today? Can you make him a cup of sugary tea at hourly intervals and perhaps some soup and toast a couple of times today?"

"Of course I can, you don't worry about a thing. How is Mary?"

"She's fine, thank you. Right, Sherlock, I'll sort out bedding for you, and I'll be back in a few hours to have a serious conversation with you about medication. OK?"

Sherlock nodded slightly and closed his eyes again.

oOo

John returned to Baker Street at a little after eight that evening. He was pleased to find Sherlock was sat upright, even if he was still wrapped in his duvet. His eyes were also open and though they looked dull, the redness was starting to fade a little.

"I'm better," he said as John came in.

"Good."

"Food helped."

"Yes. Food does often help, Sherlock."

"You can go away and leave me alone now."

"No, I can't."

"You're not even my doctor!"

"You don't have a doctor. You refuse to register with any surgery. Lucky for you, I am your friend and I have been awarded a medical degree and all the odds and sods needed to practice medicine, so you won't die."

"I won't die anyway. You said it was a cold."

"Yes, and we both know that the cold isn't the problem here, Sherlock." He sat down on the coffee table to talk to him. "I've seen you crash after a case before, but never like that. _That_ was a problem. Sherlock, I've never seen you depressed to the extent that you won't eat or drink."

"I just… Damn it, I haven't got the energy to argue with you right now."

"No. And I don't want to use up your energy either. So I've just had the argument for us and made up your responses."

"That's hardly fair!"

"Deal with it. I want you to take medication; you don't want to take medication. I'm prepared to accept that you've been able to shake off most other depressed periods you've experienced by yourself, but I'm still concerned that what you experienced this week was bad. You, conveniently, accept that it was indeed bad, and you admit that you still feel ill enough that you're quite concerned about yourself. I understand your concerns, and, out of sheer kindness shared the following medical snippets with you: We know that you get post activity exhaustion and depression, and in this case it was intense and prolonged activity, so you experienced a proportional crash. Also in this case you've also been battling a cold so that might add a touch of post-viral depression into the mix. In addition to that, the malnutrition has probably left you with anaemia, which will also exacerbate some of the symptoms of Depression. So I'm prepared to compromise as follows: We won't medicate yet. We will medicate in three weeks time if you still feel as bad you do now."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh, I didn't follow much of that, but I liked that it ended with no medication."

"No medication _yet_. That was my compromise. Your compromise was that you're prepared to follow a strict diet and activity regime for the next three weeks."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are, because if you do, then you're less likely to need medication in three weeks time."

"OK. Fine."

"The diet I'll sort out for you. Mrs Hudson will help I'm sure. You need to leave the house flat and be outside for several hour-long periods a day, ideally doing some form of mild exercise, walking will do, but you can build up to that slowly. You need to do absolutely no work, by which I mean brain-work, for the three-week period. Then in three weeks I'll reassess you, and we'll take it from there."

"You're like my own personal, tiny dictator, aren't you?"

"Yes. Now, to make the 'outside' and 'no work' parts of that edict easier, I propose that we go and spend a week in Reigate with my friend Bill."

"Reigate?"

"Yes. Bill has an estate down there."

"Reigate?"

"Yes. What do you not understand about Reigate?"

"It's _Reigate_."

"Reigate is perfectly lovely! It's not too far from London, so either one of us can get back if we need to, but it's set in enough countryside for me to be confident that you're not going to get into any mischief. We can take some nice, relaxing and invigorating walks every now and again."

"In _Reigate_."

"Sherlock, behave!" John was glad to see some of the old fighting spirit returning though.

"John, I'm not going to Reigate. I can do everything you said, but I'll do it in London."

"OK, the thing is, I don't think you can get as far as the street corner without finding something intriguing, and I know you can't make it around the park without dashing off to solve some imagined crime somewhere."

"That happened once, and it only happened because you made me go out for an evening stroll in the first place."

"Well I'm not going to argue about it now. I'm just here to check up and to tell you to think about it overnight. I'll come back tomorrow and help you pack then."

Sherlock flopped back on the sofa, exhausted and John frowned at him.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "I think I'd be more fine if I didn't have to waste energy battling you off with your insane need to be caring. What?" he asked as John frowned.

"You're the second person this week to suggest my caring is over-baring."

"John, you flew to Rome to give me a check up and to bring me home. I wouldn't have bothered for you."

"Yes you would. Well I'm going now. If you need anything call me, and I'll see you tomorrow anyway."

oOo

When John returned to Baker Street in the morning, he found Sherlock tense and irritable. He appeared to have slept on the sofa all night, and John was suspicious that it hadn't been deep, comfortable sleep.

"I'm fine. What do you want? Why do you keep coming back here?"

"Because I'm your friend and you're unwell and I can help."

"If you really wanted to help you'd have stayed and done that instead of running off and getting married like the selfish prick that you are!"

John was surprised into silence.

"I know you're only here because you feel guilty about that!" Sherlock went on.

"No I'm not. I'm here because I'm your friend! Normal people can have perfectly happy marriages alongside a number of friendships! Now look, you're clearly not right…"

"I'm _fine._"

"Did you think any more about Reigate?"

"I'm not going to bloody Reigate!"

"Sherlock, I really think…"

"Go away, John! Go and run home to your wife! She's the one you clearly want to be with right now! It was her fault that you weren't allowed to stay let me get better in Rome! It was her fault that you dragged me across Europe when I really couldn't cope with it! It's her fault that I'm still not well!"

John took a deep breath. "OK. We'll talk about Reigate later."

"Oh, fuck Reigate, John! I'm not interested. I'm not interested in that and I'm not interested in you right now either. You've turned into a selfish, weak coward because you just won't stand up to her."

John blinked and swallowed for a while. "Do you want me to make you some tea before I go?"

"No. Just get out!"

John turned on his heel and marched from the room. Sherlock flung himself back down on the sofa and rolled himself into his duvet and sniffed. He tried very hard not to think about how alone he suddenly was and he was relieved when he heard Mrs Hudson's footsteps coming up the stairs.

She knocked lightly. "Are you awake, Sherlock?"

He grunted at her.

"Has John gone already, love? I thought he might stay a bit longer."

Sherlock found he was feeling both guilty and a little sorry for himself. He sniffed again.

"Mrs Hudson, please would you make me a cup of tea?"

"Of course, love. Do you want me to stay up here with you for a bit?"

"Yes."

oOo

Sherlock didn't move from the sofa for the rest of the morning, though he did feel some of the anger and frustration slipping away. He thought about John and hoped that he'd just conveniently forget about the row, rather than expect an apology.

After lunch, his phone rang. He vaguely wondered whether answering it constituted 'working' but he did so anyway.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, Hi. It's Mary. Mary Watson."

Sherlock frowned for a moment. He did not talk to Mary Watson. This wasn't exactly a rule or even something he'd admit to outside of his own head, but he didn't. He'd been invited to John's flat for dinner on many occasions. He mostly declined, and on the two occasions he'd agreed to come he hadn't actually attended, the first time because of work, and the second time he said he'd simply forgotten.

He'd apologised profusely by text and had been forgiven, certainly by John, and John had continued to come and visit Sherlock at the Baker Street flat. They'd shared the occasional take-away meal and would have a laugh and catch up with each other. Sherlock asked after Mary for politeness rather than interest and listened to updates because he had to. But he didn't talk _to_her.

"Sherlock? Are you there?"

"Yes. Sorry. John's not here at the moment."

"No, I know. He's at the supermarket."

"Oh. What do you want then?"

"I want a favour. Look, John tells me you haven't been well."

"I'm fine!"

"Yes. I had hoped that you were better than he's making out."

"I am."

"Sherlock, John's worried at the moment. He's worried about me here, and he's worried about you there. He's flitting between us, worried in general and I'm slightly concerned that he's going to blow up if he keeps on like this."

"Literally blow up?"

"No, not literally. How would he literally blow up?"

"Sorry, I was… Sorry." Sherlock glanced around the room wondering what to say. "Please continue." was all he came up with.

"Look, yesterday he came up with this idea of going to Reigate with you."

"It's a stupid idea."

"Yes, I thought you might think so. But I wonder if it really is, Sherlock. Like I say, John's worried and stressed and he desperately wants to help, and he's convinced himself that this Reigate trip will be all that you need to bounce you back to good health. The fact that you might not go is making him ever so slightly… insane. Not literally. But he's worried and frustrated and, well, you know how he gets."

Sherlock nodded, but then realised this wouldn't progress the conversation. "I do. Why don't you go with him to Reigate?"

"He doesn't want to take _me._"

"Why not?"

"I don't think he thinks that Reigate would make me better. Look, Sherlock, I can hear him coming in so I have to go. I know you don't want to, but would you at least think about it? For John? I think it really might do him some good. Bye now."

She disconnected the call. Sherlock sat back and stared at his phone for a moment, and then he saved her number as 'Mary Watson'.

oOo

John returned to Baker Street at seven in the evening.

"I didn't think you were coming back," Sherlock said, hoping John would mistake this for an apology.

"Yeah. Sorry for storming out. It wasn't helpful. I brought you a conciliatory gift though." He handed him a Tesco bag.

"Apricots."

"Yes. Dried apricots. They're full of iron, and conveniently also full of vitamin C, which will help you absorb the iron."

"You've made me into quite a project, haven't you?"

"Yes. I don't like to think of you ill."

Sherlock looked at John. He looked at him properly for the first time in weeks. His shoulders were hunched with tension, and his mouth was taut. There were more bags and shadows under his eyes than were warranted by Sherlock's condition and the excursion to Rome. Sherlock smiled at him.

"Well, I'm feeling quite a lot stronger already. I think I'm strong enough to manage a short trip down to Reigate, if you still think it's necessary."

"Really? I mean, yes! I do!" He sat down on his armchair and smiled at Sherlock.

"Bill hasn't got any children has he?"

"Nope, he never married." John frowned. "Or had children either. It's a quiet house from what he tells me. He's longing to meet you!"

"How does he know about me?"

"From the blog. And the stories and stuff."

"Oh I'd forgotten the damned stories. Can't you stop writing them?"

"Really? I thought you liked them."

"I don't."

"Oh. Have you ever read any?"

"No. Not since the first few blogs anyway."

"Right, then I think I'll keep writing them safe in the knowledge that you don't really care. Do you think you could stomach Chinese food?"

"I'm sure I could, but I don't think it's on the carefully prepared diet sheet that some busybody prepared for me."

"Well you deserve a treat. Besides, you've got the apricots now. Don't eat them all at once will you. That could be... explosive."

The following day, they sat opposite each other on the train heading south. The Journey to Victoria had drained Sherlock and he spent the first twenty minutes with his eyes closed, and John had quietly pulled a book out of his rucksack to read. He was engrossed in it when suddenly Sherlock's broke into his thoughts.

"What's happening between you and Mary?"

"What?"

"Have you had a row?"

"No. Not that I can think of. Why?"

"Something's not right. I'm sorry I haven't noticed before. Is she ill?"

"No. Everything's fine." John tried to go back to his book.

"No, you've mentioned a few times that you can't leave Mary alone at the moment. This trip is only possible because you're close by in case of emergency. You're not usually that clingy. At first I thought she must be pregnant but you're not nearly happy enough and you could never…"

He broke off as John suddenly went tense and looked angry and hurt. It was gone in a moment and he gave Sherlock a quick, tense smile.

"Mary's fine. We're fine. You don't need to worry."

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat forward. "John I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell, and besides, you were away when it all happened." Sherlock continued to stare at him. "Look, it's not a big deal. We were going to have a baby, we're not now, but we're still hopeful that it will happen at some point. And with luck it will be soon. Life goes on, and it's not something you need to worry about."

"This is the sort of thing normal people get upset about."

"Yeah." He sighed and rubbed his face. "Yes it is. Mary took it fairly hard and, well, it hasn't been the best couple of weeks for us. But we're fine together, and it's not the end of the world, and you don't need to worry, OK?"

He went back to his book and Sherlock sat back and watched him.


	3. Chapter 3

**You may have noticed that I've been creative with the characterisation of Bill Murray. As he only appears in the comments on John's blog rather than in the TV series, I feel vaguely justified. **

**Thanks so much for the reviews! I do try to respond but in cases where your PMs are switched off; thank you!**

Chapter Three

The taxi pulled into the long gravel drive at Cockcroft Hall, a large, stately manor house built in the symmetrical style so favoured by the Georgians. There was a short but wide staircase leading up to the front door, and Brigadier Bill Murray was stood waiting for them with a warm smile on his face and a walking stick in his hand. He was older than Sherlock had expected, a well to do English Gentleman of about seventy, with bristly white hair and a clipped, old-school military moustache. He walked down the steps of his house and shook John firmly by the hand.

"Doctor! Doctor! Welcome! I'm so pleased to get you down here at long last!"

"Bill, this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mister Holmes! Very pleased indeed! Welcome, welcome! Come along in now." He led them up the stairs and in to the wide hallway of the house. "Leave your bags here and I'll send Martin to take them to your rooms shortly. Come along in here." He took them into a large drawing room facing the large back garden. "Now, what can I get for you? I have a lovely old bottle of extremely good Scotch that I've been saving for just this sort of engagement."

"Thank you, Bill, but I think I'll just stick to tea for now, if that's possible."

"More than possible, Doctor. What about you, Mister Holmes?"

"It's Sherlock, please. And the doctor has me on a low diet at present, so I'd better stick to tea too if I may."

"That sounds exactly the sort of annoying thing this young chap would do."

"I'm sure he has my best interests at heart, Brigadier."

"It's Bill, Bill's just fine, unless you happen to meet my mother in which case William is best. But that's quite unlikely these days seeing as she's dead. Anyway, yes, I've been told that you're convalescing. Sit down now, sit down, don't be all spare. I'll go and find Donna and arrange tea." He limped from the room.

Sherlock immediately sat down with a relieved sigh and closed his eyes again.

"You OK?" John asked.

"Fine. I'm fine, just tired."

"I'll find out where you're sleeping and you can have a nap after lunch."

"I don't need a nap!"

"Fine! OK!" John wandered around the room to look at the various ornaments and paintings that had been collected by the Murray family over time.

"Why does he call you Doctor?" Sherlock asked.

"Because I'm a doctor, at a guess."

"No, you call him Bill, not Brigadier, but he calls you Doctor."

"It's a very funny joke that goes back fifteen, no, nearly twenty years now. I first met Lieutenant Colonel Murray, as he was then, when I was a fresh-faced young recruit in the fifth medical, and I'd been sent to Kosavo. I'd only been out there three weeks or so, and it's entirely possible that I was still scared witless. He didn't know me and he called me 'Lieutenant' to get my attention. I got all mouthy about being a doctor first and a soldier second and a rank hardly at all and ranted for a full five minutes about the standardising of recruits to ranks to dehumanise them. Anyhow, it turned out he was just popping in to check on some of his own new recruits who'd been caught in a fire-fight the day before, and he just wanted directions. He introduced me to Alan, Shaun and Philip and asked me to take good care of them. He's refused to call me anything but 'Doctor' since."

"What was your rank in the end?"

"What?"

"It's just occurred to me that I don't know it. What were you, by the time you finished?"

John looked at him. "You never nosed around my room looking for insignia?"

"No. Well, I nosed, obviously, but not for that and I never found them."

John smiled. "Well, I'm happy to tell you anyway. I was a _doctor_."

Bill came back into the room. "Right, tea is imminent, and I've requested lunch for one o'clock. Does that suit? I'm a creature of habit, I'm afraid, Sherlock. I require regular feeding."

"So does he," John said, nodding at Sherlock, "but he barely remembers it. Bill, what are these things here?"

"What? Oh, those! Well I've set myself a little puzzle to solve, Doctor. Remember when I complained that nothing ever happens in this little corner of the world and you said it would be the perfect place to bring Sherlock in that case? Well, probably as I was uttering those very words, something was actually happening! There was a break in at old Judge Acton's place! He was in a proper temper when he came down here to tell me about it, I can tell you."

"Did he lose lots of valuables?"

"No, nothing of the sort! I actually think he was more cross about that than the break in itself! Apparently they utterly ransacked the library, turned the place upside down, but didn't leave the room. Then they left us with this blasted puzzle! These are the items he stole. Well, not_ the_items, obviously, these are replacements from my own house. I thought that if I looked at them all together, I might be able to work out why he took these particular things! I've been reading all your Sherlock stories, Doctor, and the investigating bug has well and truly bitten me."

"Let me see," Sherlock said from just behind them.

"God! Sherlock, don't sneak up like that," John said. "In fact go and sit down and convalesce somewhere. You're not allowed brain-work remember."

"Let me look." He pushed John out of the way so he could see the items, and then he laughed. "I _see_."

On the tabletop there were two silver-plated candlesticks, a copy of Dan Brown's Da Vinci code in hardback, a paperweight of coloured glass, an old wooden wall-clock and a ball of string.

"Aha!" The Brigadier said. "No, not aha. I still don't see, and you mustn't give me any hints! I'm sure I'll get there if I just put my mind to it"

"I wouldn't dream of spoiling your fun," Sherlock said. He swayed slightly and held onto the back of a chair. John pulled out the chair he was next to and gently pushed him onto it.

"I knew you'd get it quick!" Bill grumbled. "Old Acton virtually begged me to get you on board when he heard you were coming here. No, don't worry, Doctor! I said no! I said it was my duty to preserve the mind of Mister Sherlock Holmes so that it might continue in its service to the wider world." John watched as Sherlock smiled slightly. "Besides which, I'm sure this little mystery would be of no interest to the world famous Sherlock Holmes."

"I think your impression of my fame is slightly exaggerated," Sherlock said. "I'm not a global entity quite yet."

"Oh, but the doctor's stories are now that they've been syndicated! And where they go, fame for you is bound to follow!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John. John didn't look away from the objects on the table.

"So, a ball of string?" he said, innocently.

"Well yes," Bill said. "You see, I wondered if the string was to be used for something. Perhaps they needed some string, hadn't brought any of their own, so took it. I wondered about a weighted bundle perhaps."

Sherlock's face remained perfectly neutral.

"Obviously these things aren't exact replicas either," Bill continued. "The wooden clock represents a wooden barometer, but my barometer is made from brass and is screwed to the wall. And it wasn't a Dan Brown that was stolen either. They took a copy of Pope's translation of Homer, but I thought this might be a good substitute in terms of size and weight."

John frowned. "Was it an old copy of Homer? I mean, if it had historical value of some sort, it might explain why it was taken."

"Aha! There we have it! I always knew you were a clever one, Doctor, I hadn't thought of that at all! I'll call Acton later and find out whether it was old."

"I wouldn't worry him if I were you," Sherlock said. "It is indeed an excellent suggestion, but copies of Pope's Homer are not rare, and even the older ones aren't sought after. I doubt that the book was worth more than this one here. Unless the barometer was by a valued maker, and I doubt it was, the candlesticks would be the most valuable items taken."

"Oh," Bill seemed quite crestfallen for a moment, but he rallied. "So, you think my substitution is an acceptable one.

"Oh yes. I imagine Dan Brown is a perfect substitute for Homer." He smiled to himself.

They were interrupted by the arrival of tea and the conversation moved on. John and Bill quickly settled down to reminiscing about people they'd known and places they'd seen, and despite his earlier protests Sherlock curled up on the sofa and fell asleep.

oOo

After lunch John suggested a short walk around the grounds and though Sherlock grumbled and complained, Bill cajoled him into action.

"We won't go far, Sherlock! My leg won't stand it."

"Have you been doing your exercises, Bill?" John asked him.

"I have not. I am ashamed and remorseful, Doctor. I vow I'll do better next year. Come along now, young Sherlock! If I'm capable of jumping to the good doctor's whip, you must be too."

They wandered slowly through the breakfast room, down some steps onto the lawn.

"How's your lady wife, Doctor? Mary, isn't it? Coming along well is she?"

"She's very well, thank you Bill."

"I'm sorry I didn't make it up to the wedding. I have to admit though, I half thought the invitation was a hoax."

"A hoax?" Sherlock asked.

"Well yes! I've known the doctor since he was an eager young pup, Sherlock, and I never thought that he'd manage to get married."

"Thank you, Bill," John said with a smile.

"Too much choice, you see," Bill went on. "Didn't matter how pretty the girl on his arm might be, he always seemed to be concerned that there might be another prettier one just around the corner There was always an air of desperation about him."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, I have to admit I've noticed a similar concern myself."

"He's always quite, quite charming, you understand. The perfect gent to whichever poppet he might happen to have persuaded to walk out with him. But then he'd be the perfect gent to whoever was next too. And countless others in between. I've decided this Mary creature must be either very charming herself, or very frightening."

"She's perfectly lovely," Sherlock told him.

"Though frightening too at times," John said.

"And will there be a string of little Doctors running about at your feet at some point?"

"I hope so," John answered.

"Well I'd get a move on if I were you. You might be young in comparison to me, but time runs away from us all in the end. You're not exactly going to be a young parent, are you!"

Sherlock glanced at John sharply, but he didn't look upset.

"No, that's true," John replied. "What's that big house there, up on the hill? Is that Acton's place?"

"No, no. That's Mayfield House, where Cunningham lives. Lord Ashbury I should say now apparently. He's the second Judge to dwell in our little valley. He owns all the land you can see over to the west, up to the start of that small forest bit there. Though to hear him tell it, he owns the forest too, and everything up to that stream you can just see cutting through there." He pointed with his walking stick. "Acton's place is over there. You can just see the chimneys behind those trees there. He's the chap who actually owns the forest and the stream. They've been ranting at each other for countless years now. I think Cunningham only went into law because Acton had. Two can play at that game, you see."

They stood for a while and gazed at the wide, open valley. There weren't many other houses on the landscape.

"Maybe we should try for a ramble over to Acton's tomorrow. Do you think he'd mind?" John asked.

"Oh I shouldn't think so. He'd be delighted to see you I'm sure! I'll call and pave the way for you if you'd like?"

"That would be great, thanks. What do you think, Sherlock? Sherlock?"

He turned to find that Sherlock had walked back to a boundary stone and had sat down on it. He was pale and shivering again. John walked back to him.

"Well, maybe we'll work our way up to it. It doesn't need to be tomorrow. Are you OK to get back to the house?"

"Yes," Sherlock croaked. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it." He helped Sherlock up again and linked his arm through his. As they walked back across the lawn to the house Sherlock leaned quite heavily on him.

"I hope you chaps don't mind," Bill said. "But I've taken to having an afternoon nap in my old age. You're free to have the run of the house of course, and do ask Donna for anything you might want to eat or drink, you'll find her around the kitchen just down the stairs. Your rooms are up the main staircase; turn left, and the two at the end of the corridor. You can fight over who gets the one with the view."

"Thank you, Bill."

"No problem at all, Doctor."

He turned and limped his way up the stairs.

"What do you want to do?" John asked Sherlock. "I can help you up to your room if you want to sleep for a bit. I'll let you have the one with the view."

"No, I'd rather not. I'd like to stop sleeping all the time. Let's go and see if we can summon some tea from somewhere and investigate the Brigadier's library. I can't believe that a house of this age is solely stocked with the likes of Dan Brown."

oOo

They had a slow, relaxed evening. Sherlock had looked at the library as a challenge. He'd selected several books, reluctantly left several more. He'd barely registered the other two men since. He lolled on a Chesterfield armchair in the Billiards room while John and Bill played several games and a small amount of the aged Scotch was consumed.

They didn't make it a late night and headed upstairs to bed shortly after eleven. John settled down in the large, comfortable bed and was asleep almost instantly.

He was woken shortly after one by Sherlock shouting in the hallway.

"Stop! No, stop! Come back here! Come back!"

Sherlock sounded distressed and John was up and in the hall before he'd properly woken up. He found Sherlock alone, wandering a few steps in one direction and then in another while looking wildly around.

"Sherlock? What is it? Who's here?"

"That boy! That child! He needs to come back!"

"What? Sherlock, what are you talking about?" He took hold of Sherlock by the shoulders and noticed his eyes were wild and unfocussed. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock tried to fight him off for a moment before he sagged and stopped. He looked around, confused, but then he seemed to remember where he was. He looked at John and started to make sense of what had just happened.

"What's going on?" Bill called, coming out of his room at the other end of the corridor. "Is there a break in? Is someone here?"

"No, Bill, I think we're all right." John called to him. "It was… it was a false alarm."

"Are you sure? Is everything quite well?"

John looked at Sherlock again. He was now looking desperately embarrassed.

"Yes, we're fine, Bill!" John called. "I'll check the house just in case, but you should go back to bed."

Bill nodded and disappeared back into his room.

"Are you OK?" John asked Sherlock.

He nodded and blinked tears from his eyes. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's fine. Come on. Go back to bed, you're shivering again."

John followed Sherlock back into his room and watched him get into bed.

"God it's dark in the country," Sherlock said. "I forget how dark it is with no cars or street lights shining through the window."

"It's quiet too," John said coming in and sitting on the bed. "It feels unnatural."

"Mm. John, the baby thing… you will have a baby, won't you?"

John smiled. "Since when have you been remotely bothered about that? You don't even like children!"

"No. No I don't. It feels odd though, that you didn't tell me."

"Well like I said, you were away. You were in Italy."

"No, I don't mean then. I mean at the beginning. You didn't think I'd be excited for you. You assumed I'd be upset."

"Yeah. I did think that."

"It's my own fault. I wouldn't be, you know. I don't like children in general, but I will be happy for you when it happens. I promise."

"Well, we'll see. I just… well, it turns out it's harder than you'd think. Teenagers seem to be able to pop them out willy-nilly but me and Mary can't manage to…" He broke off and rubbed his face. "Sorry, this is irrelevant and you should go back to sleep. Do you want a pill?"

"You brought sleeping pills with you?"

"Yes, of course. When have you ever known me go anywhere without a sensible supply of medication?"

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you. Yes please. I'm sleeping all bloody day and chasing vanishing children around mansions all night. It's annoying."

John got up and walked away but Sherlock called after him.

"You wouldn't make me babysit would you?"

"God no! I couldn't think of anyone worse!"

"Mycroft."

"Oh, yeah. Well obviously, but no, I wouldn't make you babysit. I'd quite like my child to grow up sane."

"Good. Well that's all good then."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four.

John woke up early. The absence of his wife in the bed and noise coming from the street outside disturbed him and he had to wake properly to make sense of it. After that, he started thinking about Mary and Sherlock and it was quickly apparent that he was not going to go back to sleep again. He struggled to find much to do in his room to get him through to seven o'clock which was he had decided was an acceptable hour for going downstairs. He cursed himself for failing to bring his book up to bed, but then remembered he'd seen Sherlock carrying a stack upstairs with him so he went to borrow one from him.

He didn't knock, and he was careful to walk quietly across the room, trying hard not to disturb Sherlock's sleep. It took him a moment to notice that he was not in his bed. The door to the small en-suite bathroom was open and Sherlock wasn't in there either. John panicked slightly.

He dashed out of the room and ran lightly downstairs, preferring to check the house himself before disturbing Bill. He was glad he had done so when he dashed into the drawing room and found Sherlock resting calmly on the sofa, reading a book.

"Oh! There you are!" he said.

Sherlock looked across at him with raised eyebrows. "Why? Where did you think I'd gone?"

"I didn't know!"

"John, you really need to control this odd clinginess you've developed."

"Yes. Well, you're not usually an early riser. Didn't the sleeping-pill work at all?"

"Actually it worked perfectly. It worked for precisely three hours and twenty-seven minutes, and then I woke up."

John sighed. "I might give you a higher dose tonight."

"Maybe by some miracle I won't need any tonight. Anyhow, I came downstairs an hour ago, but haven't yet summoned the courage to venture into the kitchen."

"Well, let's do that now. I need tea."

Sherlock nodded and followed John down a narrow staircase into the large kitchen.

"It scares me that this room is the size of my whole flat," John said.

"Oh, you exaggerate. Maybe if you included the scullery and the larder though." He grinned at John and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Well it has a kettle, and as far as I'm concerned that's the only real requirement for a kitchen." John filled it and started looking through the cupboards for teabags. "Did you know, the prototype of the Challenger didn't have tea-making facilities in it? The soldiers doing the field-testing complained so bitterly that by the time they, the Challengers I mean, were released for use in the first Gulf War, they'd installed a water heater. It was ingenious too! There was a tiny space where you could boil a pan of water, then you dropped your boil-in-the-bag whatever in it, so you got a hot meal, and you used the water you'd boiled it in for the cup of tea afterwards."

He looked at Sherlock who was smiling at him.

"What's a Challenger?"

"A tank."

"Ah. I thought it must be plane, boat or tank. So the British Army and the people in the British Army honour tea so highly that they'd allow boiling water in a small, contained, unsteady vehicle that had six people in it."

"It had four people in it. Well, for standard operations it had four anyhow, a Gunner, a Driver, a Loader and a Commander. And they decided that a small amount of hot water in the thing was better than having four highly trained, well-armed and caffeine deprived people in it. In the grand scheme of things, I think they were probably right. Do you think it would be rude of me to make myself a bacon and egg sarnie?"

"Highly rude. I'm not saying you shouldn't though and you can make me one too. Did you ever go in one?"

"In a what?" John started rooting around cupboards for a frying pan.

"In a tank? In a Challenger?"

"I went in a Challenger Two once. Only when it was a training mission though, not for real."

"You sound disappointed about that."

"Well, when you start off in the army, you think 'Oo, I wonder if I'll ever get to go in a big tank or plane or whatever'. And then you do get given a little tour, and you start thinking 'I wonder if I'll ever get to go in the tank, plane or whatever when it's actually _moving'._And then that happens because you've made friends with, or hopelessly flattered, someone who's an operator. And then of course you start thinking 'I wonder what it feels like to be in one of these when it's actually being shot at and shooting back!'"

"John, you're a very strange person."

"I'm not though. I think most little boys have some sort of big, loud vehicle that they really want to go in. You know, trains, or tractors, or planes. And then they get to sit in one and that fuels the fire, so they want to drive one and so on. For me it was military vehicles. Specifically tanks, but I wouldn't say no to a trip in a Tornado either."

"A Tornado is a…"

"A plane, Sherlock. A nice, fast, shooty plane that likes to drop bombs too."

"Is it possible that your entire military career was founded on you liking outrageously loud and destructive machines?"

John thought about this while waiting for the bacon to cook. "Actually yes, that was a big part of it. I like tanks and there are very few jobs around that give you the opportunity to go in a proper, working tank."

"Why won't you tell me what your end rank was?"

"Because I'm strangely amused by the fact that you don't know."

"So what was it then?"

"If I tell you, will you start being respectful to me and calling me sir?"

"No."

"I'm not telling you then." He passed a sandwich over to him and sat down with one himself.

"Oo! Goodness me!" A middle aged lady appeared in the doorway looking shocked. "Oh, sorry, I wasn't expecting to see you there!"

"Sorry," John said. "We got hungry. Are you OK?"

"Yes, it's just I'm a bit jumpy with these stories of break-ins. I keep imagining we must be next! I'm in such a fluster that I didn't even ask you two when you'd want breakfast. Bill's usually ready at eight but you must be early birds."

"Well, not usually. Sorry, I messed up the kitchen. And stole your eggs and bacon."

"Oh, not to worry, not to worry at all. Will you be wanting more breakfast when Bill gets up?"

"I will, but he won't. Thank you. We'll get out of your way now."

They gathered their sandwiches and cups of tea and scurried away up into the morning room. As they got out of earshot they giggled.

"That felt like the time I got caught in the chemistry supply room after curfew at school!" Sherlock said.

"What were you doing in the chemistry supply room?"

"Gathering chemicals of course. I suspect I either wanted to explode or disintegrate something. I can't remember which now."

"Perhaps your 'chemicals' was my 'tanks'."

"No, I think police cordons were my tanks. I couldn't walk past one without wanting to go in. I did several times when I was small. I'd shake off the Nanny or Mycroft or whomever I was with and I'd duck underneath and have a good look. As I got older I stopped being able to just stand there looking like an innocent, curly-haired angel who'd just wandered in, and it wasn't so easy any more. It became something of a mission for me. If I knew there was one close by I'd see how close I could get to the scene of crime without being stopped. When I was first invited to one, legitimately, I wondered if the thrill would be reduced because there was no furtive sneaking. It wasn't. I can't describe what I felt when the Lestrade lifted the tape for me to get underneath. Then he asked me to comment instead of chasing me off. It was… Well, it was good."

John smiled at him. "You see, that's the equivalent of me learning to actually drive a tank."

"It hasn't worn off over time either. It's true the initial buzz isn't quite as strong, but whenever I get there, I know there's nowhere else I'd rather be. I do wonder if all the train drivers and the pilots of the world ever find themselves thinking 'actually, in reality this is quite boring'. Because I don't. I still enjoy it."

John watched him eat for a while.

"You know we wanted you to be godfather."

"What?"

"For the baby that wasn't. Well, _I_ wanted you to be godfather; Mary took a touch of persuasion. Last night you said I hadn't told you because I didn't think you'd be happy. Well, that's partly true, but I didn't tell you before you went away because you were distracted and I wanted you to properly concentrate, regardless of what your reaction was going to be. I didn't care whether you'd be happy or annoyed or angry or whatever. I always knew that whenever that reaction was out the way, I'd still want you to be a God-father."

"John, I don't believe in God."

"Oh, I know that, Sherlock. But Mary and I hadn't even talked properly about whether we'd have an actual Christening or a naming ceremony or nothing at all. But we do have people who we'd want to be an active part of his or her life. Not necessarily relating to the spiritual side of things, but I think what we wanted was a few people to just commit to being there for the child. So if he or she wanted to discuss something or talk to someone about something, then those people would be around for the child to do just that. Well, to be as around as they could be. I wanted you to be one of those people."

"But Mary didn't."

"I knew you'd be distracted by that one, small point. Mary wanted you too. But she also wanted the god-parents, or whatevers, to be someone who would occasionally talk to her."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"I hoped she hadn't noticed."

"Really? I just assumed you wouldn't care whether she noticed or not."

"And you don't mind?"

"No, actually I hate it. But you're still my friend, despite having one behavioural issue that I loathe. And I know it's not personal to Mary, who apparently you believe to be utterly lovely. It's just you, and I guess I have to accept that."

"Ah! You're both up, gentlemen!" Bill limped into the room and smiled at them. "Has Donna already set you up with breakfast then?"

"No, no," Donna said, following him in with a trolley. "They used their initiative and fed themselves. I've got more here though and both tea and coffee will be coming up in a bit." She started putting plates of bacon and sausages onto the table. "I don't know why I didn't put the coffee on the trolley too. I'm all of a dither this morning! Did you hear about Acton's, Bill?"

"No, what of it? No new break in I hope?"

"No, I don't think so. Carole called me this morning and told me that the police were round there again! There's been a murder!"

"A murder? At Acton's?"

"No, a murder at Cunningham's! From what Carole was telling me, there was a break in there too and the robber shot someone!"

"Who was shot?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know! They wouldn't say. Carole's worried though. Her cousin works over there."

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head on his fingertips. His eyes gleamed slightly.

"No," John said.

"No what?"

"No, you can't run off and investigate whatever might be happening. You're ill, you're staying here."

"I feel much better!"

"Nonetheless, this remains a case for the local police, and you should stay well out of it."

Sherlock sighed and threw himself back in his chair with a pout.

"You know, Doctor," Bill said, "I mistakenly thought you weren't a parent yet!"

John smiled. "When he's well he can do whatever he wants. The thing is, he won't get to that point if he doesn't listen to me now."

There was a ring at the doorbell.

"I'll go and see who that is," Donna said.

"It'll be the police," Sherlock said quietly. John could swear he was actually glowing with anticipation.

Sure enough, Donna came back with a Police Constable with his hat respectfully tucked under his arm.

"What-ho, Tommy," Bill said cheerfully.

"Constable Forrester, Uncle Bill," the young man said, reproachfully.

"Of course, Constable Forrester. Would you like a coffee?"

"Yes please." He glanced at Sherlock.

"Oh, let me introduce you to my guests, Tom. This is my old friend, Doctor Watson, I knew him in the war, you know. Well, all the wars. We liked to follow each other around. This is his friend and my guest, Sherlock Holmes."

Constable Forrester's eyes widened slightly. "I'm very pleased to meet you. Both of you."

"But mostly him," John said, smiling and shaking his hand.

"No, both of you, honestly. I've got your book at home, Doctor Watson. I was wondering if you might sign it for me at some point?"

"Your book?" Sherlock said, aghast, while John blushed. "John, you have the literary ability of a flea! I cannot believe that someone suggested you to write a whole book!"

"No, well, it's more of a compilation really. You know, of the stories that have been published elsewhere. And it was just a small print-run I arranged for people who had asked for a copy, and then more people asked for them and…. Anyway, it's not like it's going to make its way onto the bestsellers list anywhere."

"They are really good, the stories," Constable Forrester said. "I love them."

"No they're not!" Sherlock protested. "They're achingly, cripplingly bad!"

"You haven't even read them!" John said, laughing. "You read a couple of blog entries and that was that!"

"The blog put me off reading anything else that might have poured forth from your brain."

"Well, I think they're brilliant," Constable Forrester said. "And you're brilliant too, if you're anything like you are in the books that is."

"Oh. Well there might be good bits in them I suppose."

"Look, Tommy, I did tell you that you couldn't come round and pester people this week." Bill told him.

"No, I know," He looked mildly ashamed. "The thing is, it's murder at Cunningham's and usually I'd ask for support from Scotland Yard, but they're quite pressed at the minute. I have a friend there who said that Mister Holmes was down here and might be willing to help."

"Bloody Lestrade," John muttered.

"Who? No, my friend's called Sally Donovan. Have you ever met her?"

Sherlock laughed loudly.

"Well yes, we have met," John replied. "Sally does feature in some of the stories. I call her Kate Williams."

"Oh." PC Forrester blushed.

"Yes. I'd rather you didn't tell her that, if it's all the same to you."

"Well, Doctor," Sherlock said, "it would appear that the fates are conspiring against you. I've been asked to take a look by the local constabulary, and recommended by Scotland Yard. It would appear that I also need to smooth the way should anyone in the Met finds out what awful things you've been writing about them! I think I will take a look with you, Constable Forrester. Let's have a little coffee, and then we'll head off."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Sherlock waited impatiently. In the end he managed just a few seconds before got up from the table and dashed upstairs. He returned five minutes later, fully dressed.

"Why are you all just sat here?" he asked.

"You said we could have coffee," John answered.

"How long will that take you?"

"Sherlock, settle down. This is exactly the type of behaviour that gets you into trouble. Sit down, take the time to drink a cup of coffee and perhaps have something else to eat."

Sherlock perched on the edge of his chair but he didn't attempt to eat anything. He stared through the window in the direction of Cunningham's house, his foot tapping in anticipation.

John sighed. "OK, all right, I'll go and get dressed."

"Do you chaps mind if I tag along?" Bill asked them.

"Not if you don't slow us down," Sherlock answered.

"Sorry, Bill, he's just…"

"Oh he's perfectly delightful!" Bill said, beaming.

"He's just like in the books!" Constable Forrester agreed, helping himself to more sausages.

John rolled his eyes and went to get ready. Bill went too, leaving the constable alone with Sherlock.

"Can you give me any background information? Witness statements?"

"Don't you want to wait for Doctor Watson?"

"No, why would I want to wait for John?"

"So he can write it down!"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Constable, I assure you that if this case is worthy of documentation, I'll fill John in with all the details. Now tell me what you've found out so far."

"OK, the break-in happened at about five this morning. Most of the household were asleep, the exceptions being Mister Alec Cunningham, who's the son of the Judge Cunningham, and his stable hand, Ben Williamson. They get up very early because Alec is in the habit of going out on a long ride in the morning."

"He goes for a ride at five in the morning?"

"Yes sir. Well he was up and having a cigarette in the back garden, waiting for Williamson to get up and get the horse ready for him. He was just getting ready to go back into the house to get dressed…"

"He was in his pyjamas?"

"Yes, it's his habit to go and have a cigarette in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He usually chats to Williamson about horse stuff I imagine, then, while Williamson gets the horse ready, he'll go upstairs and get dressed. Is that all OK?"

"Fine, thank you. What singular habits the young Cunningham has. Please carry on."

"Well, he was getting ready to go back inside, when he heard a noise at the front of the house. He ran around the house and saw Williamson wrestling with a stranger. He heard a gunshot, and Williamson fell down. The stranger ran off and Alec went to see if he could help Williamson in some way, but he was already dead. He said he saw the stranger jump over the wall at the end of their front garden, but he was gone too soon."

"Is that all?"

"Only that the dad, old Judge Cunningham, though he's Lord something now, he got up when he heard the shot and he looked out the window." He frowned. "Or do I mean _through_the window?"

"I don't know. What are you talking about?"

"I don't want to get it wrong. For the book." He looked embarrassed as Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sorry, well, the old gent looked out of the window, and he saw the robber escaping over the wall too."

"Did either Cunningham give a description?"

"They said he was a medium sized man, wearing dark clothing."

"Robbers so often are, I find. Ah! John, Bill, let's go then. This is sounding all very interesting! John, the constable can bring you up to date in the car. You know, for _the book._"

oOo

It didn't take them long to reach Mayfield House. Sherlock had brooded throughout the journey while Constable Forrester recounted the details to John, taking care to spell each name for him.

As they pulled in, in front of the house, Sherlock leapt from the car. Bill and the constable were both straight out after him. John walked forward quite slowly, having seen this particular show before. He stood and smiled as he watched them all, feeling slightly proud that Sherlock belonged to him.

Sherlock waved the others to stay back and went forward to examine the body. He looked closely at the ground around him before turning his attention to the corpse itself.

"Do you have gloves?" Sherlock said. "And tweezers and an evidence bag please." Tom rushed off to get them. "John, your presence please."

John wandered over, allowing himself a slight strut as Bill looked on. He crouched down next to Sherlock.

"Do you see it?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John looked. "Do I see what?"

"Look for a little longer. You'll see it in a moment."

"OK."

"Perhaps it would help if I told you to look for something that wasn't there."

"Sherlock, really? You want to make this into a game?"

Sherlock grinned. "I'm feeling much better, John. Much better!"

"Yeah. Great."

Bill came up to them and handed gloves over to Sherlock and John. They put them on and Sherlock used the tweezers to carefully extract a small slip of paper from Williamson's hand. He held it up to the sunlight to examine it, and then put it in an evidence bag.

"There you are Constable! What do you make of that?" Tom held the paper up and looked at it. It was apparently torn from a longer note, and the only remaining words were:

_Meet me 05:00 to_

_money tha_

"He was asked to come here!" Constable Forrester said. "Someone must have lured him here! This changes everything!"

"Indeed it does," Sherlock said, smiling at him. "And now it should be a fairly simple matter. All you need to do is to find the other part of the paper. Easy."

"Yes! Marvellous work, Mister Holmes! Well done!" He stared at the paper for a while longer. "But where should we start looking?"

"Well, I suggest that you put that section safely away while I see what else I might find. You keep looking at that body, John. I'm sure you'll get there sooner or later." He strode off across the lawn to where the robber had vaulted the garden wall. John watched him looking around for a while, trying to follow the detective's thought processes.

"Who are you? What are you doing here? Murray? Murray is that you? What the devil are you doing here?"

"Oh, good morning, your Lordship," Bill said to the newcomer. "Very bad business this, very bad."

"Lord… Cunningham," Constable Forrester started.

"It's Lord Ashbury you fool!"

"Sorry, yes, Lord Ashbury, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective sent from Scotland Yard." The constable looked nervous and Sherlock didn't correct him, but took off his gloves to shake hands with the Judge.

"My assistant and I were just taking a look around. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Mind? Why on earth would I mind? But get a move on would you. Poor chap's been lying on my driveway far too long already. His mother's very upset and he needs to be moved down to the morgue."

"Williamson's mother works here at Mayfield House too," Constable Forrester told Sherlock. "I should probably have told you that. You don't need to worry though, Sir Cunning… Lord Ashbury, I think Mister Holmes has finished with the body." Sherlock nodded and looked up at the house. "And there's good news too, Mister Holmes has found…"

"Sherlock!" John said, alarmed.

Sherlock had swayed and staggered slightly. He appeared to retch slightly before his eyes rolled back and he fell forward into Constable Forrester's arms. John leapt forward too and helped Tom lower Sherlock down to the ground. He started taking Sherlock's pulse, but Sherlock came around quickly and shook him off.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry," Sherlock mumbled.

"What the devil's going on here?" Lord Ashbury asked.

"Dad? Dad, what's happening now?" Alec Cunningham came out of the house, and charged towards them.

"I'm terribly sorry," Sherlock mumbled.

"No, it's my fault," Bill said. "I'd assured Doctor Watson that I wouldn't you over exert yourself, and then I let you come up here anyway."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "Could I perhaps go inside and have a drink of water please?"

"Of course," Bill said. The judge gruffly nodded his agreement, and Constable Forrester and John helped Sherlock to his feet and supported him as they walked into the house.

Sherlock sat down on a sofa in a living room and closed his eyes for a while. He opened them again when someone brought him some water and he revived while he drank it.

"Thank you, Lord Ashbury, and my apologies again. Doctor Watson here could tell you that I'm just recovering from an illness. It's just exhaustion really, and I'm fine now."

"Well you really shouldn't hang around here then, Mister Holmes," Alec Cunningham said.

"Well, having made it this far, I'd quite like to finish the job."

"I'd certainly be grateful, Mister Holmes," Constable Forrester said.

"Well what do you need from us? Bloody statements again?" Alec asked.

"No, that's fine. Though I wanted to be sure that nothing was taken from the house. The assumption is that Williamson caught the robber on his way into the house, and I wonder if the burglar was actually on his way out?"

"Well, of course he wasn't in the house! We were in! We'd have heard!"

"Perhaps not," Sherlock said. "It's a large house and you clearly can't hear everything from every room. Besides which, we know that the perpetrator had form." The Cunningham's looked at him confused. "The break in at Judge Acton's happened while the Judge was asleep upstairs. The thief was adept at being quiet." They nodded. "Perhaps if I might look around with you?"

After a slight pause Lord Ashbury stood up and nodded. "It makes sense. Come along then, I'd quite like to get on with the rest of the day."

The party trooped around the house and looked in each room. There was a parlour on the ground floor where Sherlock lingered.

"Are you absolutely sure that nothing has been taken from this room?" Sherlock asked. "After all, it was a similar parlour at Acton's house that was ransacked by the burglar. I'd suggest they were looking for some specific antiques."

"I shouldn't think so," Alec said. "It was the _library_at Acton's that was trashed. Not a parlour or any other sort of living room, of which they have many, full of many antiques."

"Are you quite sure?" Sherlock said. "I was sure it was a parlour…" He looked almost concerned.

"It was a library, _Detective_. Trust me on this! And we've already been in our library and nothing's been moved."

Sherlock pinched his nose for a moment and closed his eyes again.

"I'm sorry," he said, after a moment. "I'm sorry, you're quite right."

He looked utterly ashamed about the slip and stood there biting his lip for a moment. John felt awful that he'd ever allowed him to come. As the other's left the room, he held Sherlock back a moment.

"Sherlock? Do you want to go back and rest? I think this might be too much for you."

"No, no, this is fun!" Sherlock whispered and he flashed John a wicked grin before heading slowly out of the room, stopping to weakly lean against the doorpost and take some deep breaths for a moment.

John closed his eyes and shook his head for a moment, then he gathered his patience he followed him.

They finished surveying the ground floor and Sherlock headed towards the staircase.

"Why on earth do we need to look up there?" Alec snapped. "Obviously they didn't go upstairs."

"There's no harm in being thorough," Sherlock replied. "Besides which, I'd like to take a look at the view from your Father's bedroom window."

"Are you doubting my word, young man?"

"No, not at all. You said he disappeared from sight quite quickly. If I can see where your view was restricted, I might be able to narrow down his route."

"Fine, very well then, let's get on with this!" Alec said, pushing past Sherlock and walking up the stairs.

The search of the upstairs was not as thorough as downstairs. Sherlock quickly went into each room, gazed around, and left again. There was nothing of interest until they got to Alec's room.

"You don't need to go in there!" Alec said. "Obviously there was nobody in there!"

"Is there a reason you don't want us to look in your room, Mister Cunningham?" Sherlock asked.

"No! Of course not. But it's unnecessary and you're invading my privacy."

"Oh, it won't hurt at all!" Sherlock told him. He quickly opened the door. He didn't go across the threshold, but stuck his head in for a glance around. "There we go, that didn't hurt a bit now, did it?"

He smiled at them, and crossed the corridor to Lord Ashbury's room and opened the door with a flourish. He spent a time gazing out of the window muttering to himself about bushes and walls.

"I think he headed almost due south," he said, turning to them. "Look out and see if you can make out the low visibility line through the hills there."

The Constable, the Brigadier, the Judge and his son all crammed into the window to look. Sherlock turned to give John a broad smile. He put his finger to his lips briefly, and then leaned forward to knock down a small table that was holding a glass bowl full of potpourri. It all crashed to the floor scattering flower petals and glass everywhere.

"John!" Sherlock said. "You're so clumsy! I'm going to ban you from coming anywhere with if you can't be trusted in people's homes." He stamped his foot.

"I'm so sorry!" John mumbled and he got to the floor to start picking up the mess.

"Oh leave it, leave it!" the Judge said, but Bill was already with him, picking up petals.

"Mind your hands on the glass," The constable said to them, also stooping to help.

"Perhaps we would do better to leave them all alone now, Sherlock," Bill suggested. He looked up. "Where's he gone?"

John looked up too. They'd been so distracted that they hadn't noticed Sherlock leave the room, along with Lord Ashbury and Alec Cunningham.

The three remaining men stopped cleaning and stood up, staring at each other.

"John! Help!" They heard the squeal from across the hall, followed by choking sounds.

John dropped everything and ran. The door to Alec's room was now open and he sprang inside and found Sherlock being held by the throat and being pushed down onto the bed. The judge was heading towards them with a fire poker raised above his head and John swiftly caught it and pulled it from his hands before turning to help Constable Forrester drag Alec from Sherlock.

"Ah, good. You heard me," Sherlock croaked before he slid down the bed to the floor. "Constable Forrester, you might want to arrest these men." He coughed and smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"Get off me!" Alec Cunningham yelled as Constable Forrester held him securely. "What do you think you could possibly arrest me for?"

"Oh be quiet, Alec," his father replied. He wasn't making any attempt to escape or even to protest.

"I'm arresting you for the assault of a world famous detective!" Constable Forrester said. John rolled his eyes.

"You can add murder to that," Sherlock croaked. "John, have a look in the dressing-gown pocket. It's over there on the wardrobe door."

John went over to it and looked in the pockets. He pulled out a crumpled piece of torn paper and handed it to Sherlock.

"Marvellous. I did want to find it," Sherlock said, glancing at the note. He coughed again. "Are you going to help me up?"

"Not if you're just faking it again!" John answered. "You're not as light as you seem to think you are."

"Alas, on this occasion I'm quite winded." He smiled again. "It was fun though."

John sighed and pulled Sherlock to his feet. "I'm taking you home then. Well, back to Bill's house at least."

"Fine. Let's summon some back up for Constable Forrester, and then we can head back for lunch and a nap, just like you ordered."

"Aren't you going to tell us how you knew?" Bill asked. "About these two?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not here. If you wish I'll supply the details after lunch. You should ask your friend Acton to come too, there are a few bits and pieces I think he can clarify for us too."

"You will wait for me though?" Constable Forrester asked.

"Of course. You'll have to do all the annoying paperwork after all. Now let's get these two away to the Yard, or to wherever you hold people out here in the sticks. Maybe we should walk back to Cockcroft, John. It's a nice day for a hike, don't you think?"

oOo

John and Sherlock walked slowly through the fields towards Cockcroft Hall. They were mostly quiet, John ambling happily along, keeping an eye on Sherlock for sudden attacks of fainting or anything else. Sherlock was walking calmly though, his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the ground, deep in thought.

"Could I take it to crime scenes?" he suddenly asked.

"Take what to crime scenes?"

"Your baby. When you have one."

"Oh. No."

"I don't mean immediately. I mean when it's a bit older."

"Still no."

"Could I teach it chemistry?"

"If he or she wants to learn chemistry, yes."

Sherlock smiled. "Could I help you choose a name?"

"No. Definitely not."

"Could I teach it the violin?"

"If you wanted."

"Could I take it to the lab sometimes?"

"Not for a while."

"And the morgue?"

"No. Out of the question."

"Hm."

"You could babysit though."

"You said I couldn't! You don't trust me!"

"Yeah, but free childcare is free childcare." John stopped and sighed and looked out at the hills for a while. "Look, Sherlock, I'm happy that you're getting excited. It's nice. But you need to remember that it might not happen. It's… it's all so complicated. Mary and I aren't that young any more and it took us nearly a year to even conceive the first time. I just… We all need to try to accept the fact that it might not happen. I'm sorry."

Sherlock had stopped too and he spent some time looking at John. He wished he knew what he could say that might help.

"You don't need to say anything," John said to him, smiling slightly. "There's nothing that can help."

"No." Sherlock looked across at the hills too. "What about treatment? What about… I don't know but they can do all sorts of things these days. Can't they?"

"Yes, and we're thinking about it. But if we do decide on IVF, that's not going to be a walk in the park either. And it's frustrating to know that if we need to make that decision we need to make it soon, and it's just too soon after the miscarriage. I have a feeling Mary wanted me to go away so she could think about it on her own for a bit. She knows I'm eager, but it'll be quite invasive for her. She's got to really want it."

Sherlock watched him again until John became annoyed and gave him a big, fake smile.

"It's not something for you to worry about."

"So you keep saying." He turned and started walking again. John walked with him. "John you know it goes without saying that if you need money for any treatments, you can just ask."

"Yes. Thank you. But remember I'm flush with all the royalties for the book that keep pouring in."

Sherlock stopped again. "Really?"

"No."

Sherlock grinned. "You know, I think it will happen. I have a strong feeling that you will be a father one day, John. However it happens."

John laughed. "You don't even believe in all that all that sixth sense rubbish."

"No. Nevertheless, I'm fairly certain that I'm going to be a godless-father one day, and no one else is going to ask me, so there we are. Come on, let's head back now."

They started walking again.

"Can I experiment on it?"

"No!"

oOo

Bill and Judge Acton were already at Cockcroft Hall when Sherlock and John got back. They were drinking the scotch and looking at the items on Bill's table again.

"Maybe if I tie the string around the candlesticks like so…" Bill said. "There!"

"Yes, but what of it?" Acton asked.

Sherlock walked up to them and laughed again. "Oh yes, the items. I'd completely forgotten."

Judge Acton leaned forward to shake his hand. "Holmes! Holmes! I'm so glad to meet you! And you must be the enviable Doctor Watson! I've brought my book with me. You will sign it for me, won't you?"

"Yes of course," John said, laughing at Sherlock's expression.

"You have to sign mine too then," Bill said. "I was told to hide it upstairs so that Sherlock didn't catch wind of it, but that cat's well and truly out of the bag now, is it not?"

John laughed again. "Yes. Though to be honest, I'm impressed that I managed to keep it secret for this long."

"I'll get it after lunch. I'm expecting to hear the dinner gong any second now. Ah! There we are!"

"Mister Holmes," Judge Acton said. "Sir, would you please set my mind at rest about my little puzzle here? Perhaps you could explain over lunch?"

"No he jolly well can't!" Bill said. "I want to get it by myself!"

"Oh that could take years!" Acton protested. "If you ever get it at all, you daft old man!"

"Well the explanation can wait until after lunch at any rate," Sherlock said. "The doctor wants me to concentrate on eating and not thinking, and it is connected to the business at Mayfield. That should give you ample chance to solve it, Bill."

"Fair enough then. Let's go in."

They didn't end up talking about the case over lunch. Instead they heard several stories about Acton and Bill when they were at school, and several more about John's time in the army.

At one point Sherlock laughed until he wept. "Three of them? On the same night?"

"Yes indeed," Bill said as they laughed and John blushed. "Two at once at for a short while! There he was in the foyer, getting popcorn and sweets with the second one before dashing back to watch the end of the first film with the first one! He escorted her out, then doubled back to escort the first one to the seats, then out again to get the first one in the taxi."

"How on earth did you manage it?" Sherlock asked.

"They both thought that I had eaten a particularly dodgy hot-dog," John said, giggling as he remembered. "It would have worked brilliantly but for two things. One, a stupid amount of the guys decided to hang around the cinema to watch the fun, and two, all three of them turned up at the hospital the next day to check I was feeling better."

Sherlock laughed again. The doorbell rang. "That'll be Constable Forrester now," he said.

"Well, if we've all finished, I suggest we adjourn into the drawing room and send for coffee in there," Bill said.

As they all settled down, Constable Forrester produced yet another copy of John's book.

"You said you might sign it," he said.

John smiled. "Of course, hand it over."

"Oh, are you signing books?" Donna asked as she delivered coffee to the room. "Would you mind if I run and get mine?" Sherlock tutted and sighed dramatically.

"Oh Donna, could you run and get mine from my bedside table?" Bill asked. "We might as well make a session of it."

"Might we?" Sherlock asked.

"I wonder, Mister Holmes," Constable Forrester started, "and I'll completely understand if such a thing is beneath you, but would sign mine too?"

John watched as Sherlock battled the oncoming smile. "Fine, pass it over here then!"

He flicked through to the dedication page. He read the acknowledgement on the page.

_'To my dear and astonishing friend, Sherlock Holmes, without whom I'd have no story to tell, and with grateful thanks to my wife for her patience and help. All my love to you both. JW.' _

"Why did you dedicate it to me if you hoped I'd never read it?" Sherlock asked, signing his name elaborately at the bottom of the page.

"Well… I just… I'm not actually sure. It seemed polite."

Sherlock grinned and signed the other three copies that were handed to him. "Bill, I'm going to borrow your copy if I may. I feel I ought to know what atrocities he's published about me."

"By all means! Though you really ought to buy your own copy. It's terribly good!"

"Buy my own? It's my book!"

John laughed. "Right. Can we now get back to the case please? Unless you need a rest, Sherlock. I'm still a bit worried about that big faint you had at Mayfield."

Sherlock laughed. "No, I'm fine, John! As sprightly as a young lamb! A trip to the country turned out to be exactly what I needed. Thank you. Judge Acton, I wonder if I could have a couple more details from you. I understand that there's a land dispute going on between you and Lord Ashbury."

"Lord bloody Ashbury, that damned fool," Acton chuckled. "Yes there is. Both of our families have lived in our houses for centuries, and all of a sudden, about twenty years ago, he suddenly comes up with the suggestion that he owns a good quarter of _my_estate! Well, this has been batting back and forth between us since then. It's been a bloody nuisance, I can tell you that. It should be all sorted now though."

"Because of the murder charge?" Bill asked.

"No, you old goat, how would that factor? No, I finally found the piece of paper I need to prove that it's jolly well mine, that's what! I found it in the archives in the basement of Westminster of all places. Anyhow, I have it now! That'll scupper him!"

"I thought as much," Sherlock said. "The items stolen led me to believe that something similar must be the case."

"The Homer and the candlesticks led you to Westminster?" Acton asked. "Goodness me, you _are_good!"

"Well, I hadn't pinpointed Westminster exactly," Sherlock explained. "But I knew of the existence of such a paper and I had a good idea it was in your possession."

"Oh come on, Sherlock." John said, "Spill. You know you want to!"

Sherlock sighed and looked at his audience. "The end of the case was quite clear even from the very beginning on this occasion. The items stolen from your library were nonsensical. There was neither rhyme nor reason that any of them had been taken. The ball of string was particularly telling; whoever had stolen that was someone who was panicking and picking up anything that he walked past. That tells me it was a targeted robbery, and when they were startled and disturbed, they grabbed anything they could find to make it look like a chance theft. The thief, or thieves had spent a long time in your library, but hadn't touched the rest of the house, which makes it clear that the targeted object was not an antique that could be anywhere, but either a book, or a paper, but one that was quite valuable to the perpetrator. I assume I'm correct that the Homer wasn't rare?"

"No, not rare at all! It was my old school copy! There are books in my library that would sell for a pretty penny if they came up at auction one day, but that one was just old and battered and largely irrelevant."

"One must never think of Homer as irrelevant," Sherlock said sternly. "So if they'd have been looking for a valuable book, they'd have found it. This led me to a paper. Some file or other that they wanted or needed. Perhaps a letter or a photograph being used to blackmail someone. I assumed something of that nature, a mistake I made probably because I was still physically quite weak. When we strolled out into the garden that afternoon, Bill explained about the land dispute and I knew it that this was the most likely cause of the robbery.

"That led me to look towards Mayfield, though at the time I had no real inclination to make suggestions or to get involved. The dear Cunninghams would have gone entirely unnoticed had they not shot their own stable-boy and attracted the attention of the authorities."

"Cunningham always was a silly sod," Bill commented.

"If you refer to Lord Ashbury, you're probably right, but his stupidity doesn't come close to that of his son, the man of singular habits. I was prepared to accept that there might be some people, some odd, sadistic people who might choose to rise at five to go for a morning ride. I reserved judgement about that until I'd seen the scene for myself. It became quickly evident that Alec Cunningham was a liar.

"The body was entirely wrong for his description of events. According to him, Ben Williamson died when he was shot at close quarters. Very close quarters. They were chest to chest when the gun went off. But that couldn't possibly have been right, because something was missing from the body. Have you spotted it yet, John?"

"Yes. Of course! There wasn't a single sign of a struggle."

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"There were no finger marks or bruises, no scratches, the gravel on the path wasn't even slightly scuffed. He was clearly quite calm until the second he was shot."

"Oh."

"Oh what?"

"I was thinking of powder burns."

"Oh. Yes. Well they were missing too."

"But the struggle thing was a good spot. That works too." Sherlock looked up, and became aware that he was losing his audience. "Anyhow, it all pointed to the fact that Alec Cunningham was a liar. On the body I found a small slip of paper. It had clearly had been in his hand when he had died, and his murderer had clearly snatched most of it away as he left the scene. The only reason for this was that the paper was incriminating in some way. At that point the case became quite easy: find the paper and solve the crime! Do you have it, Constable?"

"I do!" He pulled two evidence bags from his pocket and handed them to Sherlock who put them side by side on a coffee table.

_Meet me, 05:00 tomorrow and bring the photograph with you. I'll bring you the _

_money that you want. I'm sorry it has come to this. Alec._

"It's really not a good idea to sign your name on any evidence," Sherlock commented. The other men in the room nodded slowly. "Naturally my suspicion was on Alec Cunningham, though I was concerned that Lord Ashbury was protecting his son to a large degree and I wasn't sure what input he'd had into the scheme. Unfortunately, Constable, I panicked a touch when I thought you were about to give my scoop away. The panic caused me to faint at an extremely convenient moment."

"You bastard!" John said, laughing. "You utter sod! I really thought you were ill!"

"Yes. Sorry. I was faking it. Only that time though! And the other times in Mayfield House too, but if I faint again here you should defiantly assume I'm ill and instantly come running to my aid."

John laughed and shook his head. "Well, you had me!"

"Not if I'd have let you take my pulse though."

"And the mistake over the library?"

"That one was fake too. I could see your heart bleeding for me too, John. I wanted to see how nervous Alec and his father were. They'd made several key mistakes already. The stupid lie about the distance of the gun shot when it would have made much more sense to say the thief just turned and shot when he was running away. That would have been plausible, but no, he went for this dramatic struggle for some reason. He said where the thief had escaped over the wall but hadn't checked the ground there. There is a muddy ditch just over that wall and he didn't think to make footprints of someone running away. So I wanted to see how much he'd let slip about the robbery at Acton's place. He virtually bragged about his first hand knowledge of it all!

"Anyhow, at that point I was fairly sure he was the villain of the piece and he was a remarkably inept one. That made me think about the location of the other half of the paper. It struck me that he was just the sort to sneak out to shoot someone in his dressing gown, then stuff any incriminating evidence into the pocket. He clearly wasn't thorough enough with anything else, and I was suddenly overcome with a desperate need to find that paper. A quick look in his room showed that the dressing gown was there on the wardrobe door. I intended to distract everyone else and run back for it.

"Unfortunately Lord Ashbury was getting a trifle anxious by that stage and he was out straight after me, bringing his son. I raced it anyway, but they were on me before I got to the dressing gown. The paper didn't really matter at that point, forensics would now get involved and fingerprints and the murder weapon will all be found and identified. I did want that paper though! Even if Alec looked quite prepared to commit another murder just to stop me getting it. I'm not sure about the Lord though, John. I was glad he'd been disarmed, but I honestly think that the fire-poker was meant for his son, and not for me. I was glad you got there though. It would have been worth it for that paper…" he drifted off, wistfully.

John frowned. "What would have been worth it? You dying to catch a murderer you mean? Because no, it wouldn't!"

"Really? Maybe not then. Anyhow, there you have it, gentlemen. From the letter it looks as though Williamson was blackmailing the Cunninghams, I'd guess he had information on the robbery at Acton's, but it doesn't really matter now, does it. Young Cunningham, possibly acting with Old Cunningham, lured him to the house with the promise of money, and then he shot him. It really was a simple as that."

Bill, Judge Acton and Constable Forrester all burst into applause. Sherlock smiled and glowed.

"Oh well done, well done indeed!" Acton said.

"Oh yes, it's been an absolute honour watching you work," Bill said.

"And I'm sure that Doctor Watson can polish it all up into a really good story," Constable Forrester said.

Sherlock frowned. "He can do what?"

"Well, you know, make it all a bit more gripping. And interesting. Not that it wasn't interesting in the first place, but well, he'll make it more so."

Sherlock turned to John, eyes bulging and open mouthed.

"Oh stop it," John said, laughing at him. "You'll do yourself another mischief! It was very well done."

Sherlock threw himself back into the chair and folded his arms with a pout.


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue.

Tem months later, John walked up the stairs to the flat at Baker Street. He found Sherlock in the kitchen, looking at something through his microscope.

"Ah, John, you're here! Did you bring food?"

"No, I've come to pick you up for dinner. I was concerned that you might not remember the engagement if I didn't come and get you."

"What do you mean? I came for dinner. I remember it distinctly."

"That was in March, Sherlock. It's now August and you said you'd come."

"Fine, fine!" He got up from the microscope with a glare and started rooting around for his coat and scarf.

"Mary's been cooking up a storm and she'd be upset if you weren't there."

"Why? It's just dinner. We could have got a take-away."

"Well, she wanted to do something nice. Come on."

"No, wait." Sherlock caught John's arm and turned him so he could look at him. John glanced around the room, before he finally met Sherlock's eyes. His face contorted as he tried to look nonchalant but he couldn't hold it for long before he grinned.

"Stop it," he said.

"Stop what?"

"Deducing me! Stop it!"

Sherlock grinned too. "Really? How far along is she?"

"Sherlock! I'm not telling you until... OK, she's ten weeks. We had an early scan and it's there, it's heart's beating, it has all its limbs!" He did a brief hop of pent up excitement.

"Already?"

"Yep! So far, so good."

Sherlock smiled. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. Right, let's go. Oh, before we do though, I got you a gift. I was going to wait, but you might as well have it now."

"For me? What is it?" He tore the brown paper from the small package. "Your book!"

"Yeah. I felt you ought to own a copy. It's signed."

Sherlock flicked through to the dedication page.

_'To Godless-Father, Sherlock Holmes. Don't mess this up! Love, Major John Watson. MD.'_

* * *

**There you are. I hope you enjoyed it.**** I'm currently working on a Twisted Lip story which should be up soon. After that, I'm thinking of doing a case that Sherlock works around the time that John's baby is born. I'm interested to see it all from his point of view and to see how he copes without John's presence.**

**Somewhat sadly, that might well be my lot until after Season 2 is aired. But who knows what might happen in between times. I might well stumble across another short story that I want to play with.**

**Thanks again for all the reviews and support!**

**Pip xxx  
**


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